


Stars, or Raining Far From Now?

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-01
Updated: 2005-02-01
Packaged: 2019-05-30 11:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15095555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: "So what?  Checks and balances, but an aide's nephew can show up to a White House function?"





	Stars, or Raining Far From Now?

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Stars**

**by: Laura**

**Pairing(s):** CJ/Toby  
**Category(s):** Romance   
**Rating:** YTEEN  
**Summary:** “So what? Checks and balances, but an aide’s nephew can show up to a White House function?”  


«»

Carrying two glasses of champagne, he walked across the crowded room.  With every intention of interrupting CJ’s conversation.

“... Dan Rather was the inspiration for that song.”

“Wow.”

“A lot of people don’t--”

“Excuse me.”

She looked at him, all proper and smiling.  She had the eyes of a trapped animal.  He only liked that look when he put it there.

“Here,” hands her a glass, “and we have a thing.”

Ever the actress, “Mark, if you’ll excuse me.”

‘Mark’ nods, as if she needs his permission.  He puts a hand low on her waist as they head towards the exit.  

The hand, “Toby, people will think--”

“That I’m using this event as an excuse to touch a beautiful woman.”

Through the massive double doors, she veers to the right. 

“Where are you going?”

Quickly, “Bathroom.”

She takes two steps.  

The third one turns into a half-stumble when he speaks, “I’m coming.”

“You can’t.”

“You’re up to something.”

They’re at the door now, clearly marked ‘Ladies’.

With a palm on the door, “I’m not.  More the merrier, Pokey.”

He takes two steps inside, then turns around and locks the door.

He finds her standing in front of a sink, back to him.  Digging through her purse, looking for something.

“Why’d you lock the door?”

He watches her back muscles dance with her movement.

“I said I was coming with you.  I don’t want to see pictures of me in here.”

Triumphantly, “Oh!”

She pulls a little packet from her purse, obscured by her hand.  He tries to look, but she puts it back just as quickly.  Like a little kid hiding something from other kids.

“What are you doing?”

No answer.  Turning around, she has an arched eyebrow and a smirk bordering dangerously on a grin.  Looking at her hands, he groans.

“Where’d you get those?”

In one hand, rolling papers.  The other hand, a plastic bag.  He’s guessing it’s not oregano.

“Carol’s nephew.”

“He’s here?”

“Yeah.  I don’t know how.”

A hand is rubbing his forehead.  He wonders how thick the skin is there.  He might wear it out someday.

“So what?  Checks and balances, but an aide’s nephew can show up to a White House function?”

“You met him.”

“Mark?”

“One in the same.”

“He looks like he has tight abdominal muscles.”

Watching her feeble attempts, he laughs.

“Honestly.  Nobody would ever think you lived in California.”

“Why?”

“You’re rolling it too tight.  It needs to breathe.  Also, the amount.  You’ll be stoned for three years.”

Tilts her head, “That might not be so bad.”

“Let me.”

She moves out of the way.  He picks up the sad excuse for something, and dumps it’s contents into the sink.

“Hey!”

“You shouldn’t.”

Taking out a pen, he twists off the cap.  He scribbles something on the paper, and hands it to her.

Reading out loud, “Moveable feast.”

Moving closer to him, “I’m just a lowly White House Press Secretary.  Care to elaborate?”

“I don’t,” with a smirk.  

“I wonder if Mark’s still here--”

“Okay.  Hemingway.”

“And?”

Sighing, he’d rather write other’s feelings, “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

“That’s sweet.  You’re still a bastard for ruining my mental escape from the evening.”

Hands on her waist, pushing her against the counter, his foot between her legs, “I’ll make it up to you.”

“I’m listening.”

“An ungodly amount of alcohol.  Then I’ll screw most of your brains out.”

She hits him on the chest.  Doesn’t mean anything by it.  She hurts him with things she doesn’t do.

“Most of my brains?”

Spreads her legs a little further.  His knee is warm.

“We’ll still need breakfast tomorrow morning.”

Squirms against him.  A little bit.  It goes a long way.

“I might be unable.”

“Because?”

“You’re as hard as a rock.  Permanent damage to my thigh, you’re leaving your mark.  So to speak.”

“It’s--”

Pounding on the door cuts off his reply.  Something life changing, she’s sure.

“Time to go, Pokey.”

Moving away from her, “Don’t forget your paraphernalia there, Cheech.”

“You’ll be screaming my given name later.”

“Because you can’t cook.”

«»

“Fuck.”

“Shit.”

Wipers.  Because of the rain.  Car horns.  Everything’s gray.  Droning a.m. radio.  

Perfect day to be a writer.

“Your turn.”

Stealing one more glance out the window, before looking at her, “What?”

“We aren’t playing a game?”

“CJ--”

“Really?  I was so sure we were.”

Hand to his beard, fingers to his forehead, “Those dinners serve no purpose.”

Fumbling through her purse, “Everyone got to see how pretty you look in a tux.”

“I wasn’t meant for pretty.  You--”

Proffered hand, “Mint?”

Shakes his head, “Prefer the aftertaste of the alcohol I’ve consumed.”

Purse is back on the floor.  

“Rain used to make me sad,” she says.  

“Now?”

“Jealous.  Wish I was being swept away.”

She fidgets with a silver bracelet.  It bears more than a striking resemblance to handcuffs.  He’s doing twenty to life in this limo and she’s the one fettered.

“Rain reminds me of you.”

“Really?  Tell me.”

“Water on a windshield.  Each drop is a part of you.  I’ve seen bits and pieces, but never all together.  There are moments, though.”

“Moments?”

Shrugs, “A car’s headlights will hit the glass in such a way.  Every drop of water lights up, for just a second.  It’s beautiful, but fleeting.”

“I’m fleeting?”

Thumb and two fingers tug at his bottom lip, “No.  It’s--”

She looks at the window, trying to find herself in fallen moisture and a stranger’s headlights.

“You blind me, sometimes.”

A minute passes.  He unties his bowtie and unbuttons two buttons.  

Quiet, but she’s deafening, “It’s raining harder now.”

He sighs.

She scoots closer to him.  Thunder outside announcing the arrival of something, she places a hand his leg.

“Toby,” she breathes against his profile.

He looks at her, trying to make her more permanent.  She leans forward and kisses him, under his ear.  Willing him to keep his eyes open for a little longer.

He smiles; a little closer to where he wants to be.


End file.
